


Houses

by castielnov4k



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Cute, Dean Plays Guitar, Fluff, Guitar, High School, Hugs, Humor, Impala, Love, M/M, Mild Angst, Poor Dean, Rain, Rich Castiel, Teenage Castiel/Teenage Dean Winchester, Teenagers, friends - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielnov4k/pseuds/castielnov4k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean believes Cas's house, huge, luxurious and 'heavenly', is perfect. But Cas knows that there is something much more vital and significant in the rundown Winchester household, that his own house lacks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Houses

Dean sat slumped against his bed, plucking at the strings on the old guitar and absentmindedly adjusting the tuning pegs. Cas was listening as he gazed out the window, picking at the loose thread on his jeans.

"Your house is cool," Cas mentioned lightly, as his eyes followed light drops of water falling from the sky onto the pavement below.

Dean scoffed behind him. Cas turned around and frowned.

"What?" Cas asked, somewhat indignantly.

Dean abruptly broke off his picking of the guitar strings, and gestured around him. The rainfall outside grew heavier.

"You call this 'cool'?" Dean laughed, an edge of bitterness seeping through. "My bedroom is literally an attic."

"Hey, it's nice," Cas protested, suddenly feeling defensive of it. He looked down to the floor of Dean's bedroom, running his fingers over the old wooden floorboards. Cas liked how they were firm and solid to the touch, despite their age.

"It's enough," Dean conceded. "There's a kitchen and a bathroom and room for Sammy and I to sleep, and Dad when he checks in. But I wouldn't call it 'nice'."

"It's perfect," Cas insisted, still looking at the floor. "It's small, but it's perfect."

"Your house is perfect," Dean muttered as he looked back down at the guitar, flushing slightly. Cas rolled his eyes.

Cas wanted to escape his house - or manor, rather - more often than he wanted to be around it, which was unfortunate because Dean always insisted on visiting Cas's house whenever they hung out after school. Today, Cas had finally put his foot down and demanded their venue be Dean's house, far away from his family's sterile white walls.

So Cas met up with Dean at the end of the day, and joined him at the Middle School gates to pick up Sam. Cas smiled fondly when Dean strode forward to throw an arm around his little brother's shoulder, ruffle his brown hair, and teased him about the stack of books in his arms, the content of which Cas noticed were several grades the fourteen-year-old's senior. Sam pushed him off, sassily commenting about Dean being jealous just because he couldn't possibly wrap his Neanderthal head around comprehending the same books. Ending, of course, with Dean calling him a 'bitch' and Sam automatically responding with 'jerk'.

Way too selfless for his own good as usual, Sam offered Cas shotgun seat with a cheerful smile. They drove until they reached the dilapidated neighbourhood, which Cas observed through the Impala's window as they travelled past, and pulled up at the rundown, one-story house at the end of the street. A woman with long brown hair made her way over when the boys got out of the car, and Dean relaxed considerably at the sight of her, after being visibly on edge for the majority of the car ride.

"Ellen!" he called out, pleasure evident in his voice. "Good to see you."

"Hey there boys," the woman - Ellen - smiled back, pulling them in for brief hugs. Sam squirmed playfully when she planted a kiss in his hair.

"And who's this?" Ellen asked warmly when she let them go and noticed Cas, who was leaning against the hood of the Impala.

"Oh, this is Cas," Dean said, looking back and smiling at him dazzlingly, hands in his pockets. "He's my... friend from school."

Cas forced himself to stop staring at Dean's smile and instead move forward to shake Ellen's hand.

"It's good to meet you," Cas greeted, mirroring her smile. "I've heard a lot."

Ellen returned the handshake - firmly, Cas noticed - and then raised her eyebrow at Dean. "Been running your mouth, have you, Winchester?"

Dean winked, grinning. "All bad, of course."

"Well they have to find something to talk about," Sam piped up, rolling his eyes as he hitched up his backpack on his shoulders. "They spend enough damn time with each other. Sitting together at lunch, chatting in the halls, hanging out after school."

Dean's jaw tensed and a flush began creeping up to his cheeks. "Shut up," he muttered under his breath.

Ellen flicked her eyes between Dean and Cas, and let out a low chuckle. "You know, Cas, you're the first friend of Dean's that I've seen around here before. You must be special."

Dean tried to hide his mortification by looking away, zeroing in on an apparently very interesting tree branch.

"Oh, I didn't - I didn't know that," Cas stuttered awkwardly, playing with the sleeve of his trenchcoat. It had been a birthday present from his father, a rare gesture afforded to him complete with a weak smile, before he returned to ignoring Castiel and to his practice of disappearing from the giant house for frequent and long periods of time, leaving Michael in charge of the younger siblings when he did so. At first, Cas had refused to touch the coat, not wanting to accept anything from his aloof father, but there was something about it that he liked. Maybe it was how it was slightly frayed, a little different, like Cas felt sometimes. Especially from his family. So Cas had picked it up off the floor and worn it, and eventually, Cas was wearing it everywhere. Admittedly, it did encourage him further when Dean had noticed it and called it 'cool' with a laid back smile the second time they had talked, when they had by chance found themselves sitting next to each other in English.

"Anyway, boys, I just wanted to come over to check in," Ellen said breezily, pulling Cas out of his thoughts. "Any word from John yet?"

"Yeah, he called the other day," Dean replied, grateful for the change in subject. "He won't be back for another week, he reckoned. But he's wiring some cash, so we'll be fine."

"Well alright," Ellen said, nodding. The conversation seemed a little too casual to Cas, as though there was something else that they weren't saying out loud. Cas suspected that it was something to do with what John Winchester did when he was away. Dean was mysterious about what his father did for a living, whenever the topic came up. Not that did very often, seeing as Cas got the impression fairly quickly that Dean didn't want to talk about it, and so had hastened to drop the subject, not harbouring any desire to pry.

"Well, you call if you need anything, you hear?" Ellen ordered, narrowing her eyes slightly at the two brothers.

"Of course," Dean promised.

"You too, Ellen," Sam added, a serious expression etched on his young face.

 _In what circumstance would Ellen need an fourteen-year-old's help?_ Cas wondered incredulously. But Ellen nodded, sincerely, at both of them, and began to retreat to her house.

"See you around, boys," she said over her shoulder. She gave a brief wave to Cas. "Nice to meet you, kid. Who knows? Maybe I'll be seeing more of you."

She briefly inclined her head towards towards Dean, winking at Cas, and Cas felt himself start to blush.

"Uh, come on, Cas," Dean said quickly, reaching out to put his hand on his back and usher him towards the house. Apparently any reluctance about letting Cas see it had been temporarily forgotten in the desire to divert from the awkward conversation. "Let's go to my room. It - uh - looks like it's going to start raining."

Which, indeed, it did, when Dean was leading Cas up the stairs into the seemingly tacked-on attic bedroom, and still hadn't finished, half an hour later, when they were reclining on the wooden floor.

"Believe me, my house is not perfect," Cas now promised bitterly.

"Don't do that," Dean said quietly.

"What?" Cas asked, confused.

"Don't lie to make me feel better," Dean snapped, looking up. "Because it doesn't work. Hearing that just makes me feel more like crap, about how dirt poor we are and how we can barely afford to live here as it is. You know I don't care that you're rich, I never have, but just don't bullshit me, ok?"

Then, he sighed and put his face in his hand, and Cas knew instantly that he was sorry for losing his temper. He didn't need an apology. Considering how long they had known each other, they had picked up on the meanings behind each other's behaviour and traits remarkably quickly. It meant that they didn't fight very often.

Cas edged over to him, taking his time. He put his hand on Dean's arm, and Dean looked up at him, his face regretful.

"I would take this over what I have any day, Dean," Cas said wholeheartedly. Dean opened his mouth, to protest again most likely, but Cas talked over him. "Yeah, so my family's rich and our house is perfect, whatever that means. It's luxurious and extravagant, we have pools and tennis courts, and way more room than we need. It's what most people would consider heaven. But so what? I hate it, all of it. I hate the sickly, suffocating perfection, and how it only emphasises its contrast with the cold, poisonous air that hangs around the place. The air that comes from the people who live there being at each other's throats endlessly. It's worse if it's the kind that comes from the supposed family members not talking for days on end, deafening in their icy silence. Breathe in that kind of hostility for long enough, and you find yourself drowning in it. It's like a parasite. The house has everything you could ever need, except what's actually important. What you have here, and I don't have there."

Dean, who had been hanging onto every word, now scoffed. "Don't tell me it's something cheesy, like love."

"No, it's the floorboards," Cas said sarcastically, before rolling his eyes again. "Of course I was leading up to something cheesy. But just because it's cheesy doesn't mean it's not important. You have a family here, Dean. You have a little brother who looks up to you like you hung the stars. You have a father - albeit a largely absent one - who cares enough to call you to tell you when he's coming back, and to tell you when he's going to be late. You have neighbours who clearly care about you and reassure you that they are always there when you need them. All of that is more than I have ever had in my life. And you have it all, here."

Dean's mouth parted slightly.

"So yeah," Cas concluded sadly, dropping his hand from Dean's arm and looking at the floor again. "Your house is cool."

Dean watched him for a moment, before pushing the guitar to the side, and sweeping him up into his arms. Cas froze in surprise; Dean wasn't ordinarily much of a hugger. But Dean's arms were warm and comfortable, and Cas found it extraordinarily easy to relax in them, winding his own arms up around Dean's shoulder blades. His face rested against Dean's shoulder, and he felt Dean's hot breath ripple down his neck. Cas hadn't realised how cold the afternoon had made him before this moment, as the rain increased its downpour against the roof, and he shivered.

They didn't say anything else when they let go. They didn't need to.

Instead, Dean reached out for the guitar again, and Cas settled beside him, leaning his back against the bed. Dean began to pluck at the strings again, but this time the sounds gradually connected and combined to form a melody, and eventually Dean's voice joined it, accentuating the gentle rhythm. Cas was completely engrossed in the combination of Dean's smooth voice and his mesmerising, occasionally flawed, guitar playing. Cas was sure the lyrics weren't for him, but still he let himself dream in the time it took for the song to end.

_I may not have the softest touch_  
 _I may not say the words as such_  
 _And though I may not look like much_  
 _I'm yours_  
 _And though my edges may be rough_  
 _And never feel I'm quite enough_  
 _It may not seem like very much_  
 _But I'm yours_

**Author's Note:**

> Song- "I'm Yours" by The Script


End file.
